


Alone

by trustingHim17



Series: Rekindling Hope [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:07:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24578776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: When Watson doesn't come down to breakfast one morning, Holmes thinks nothing of it, putting it down to overwork and exhaustion. He was right, but not in the way he expected.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson
Series: Rekindling Hope [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1776541
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

Breakfast was on the table, and Watson was still abed.

It was about time, Holmes thought. The doctor had been running himself ragged for weeks. Several of Watson’s patients had continued coming to him even after he had sold his practice, and it had been an unusually cold winter thus far. The ills and injuries of the most recent round of ice storms had combined with the normal seasonal problems to keep Watson out of the flat much more often than he was in it.

He moved quietly around the room after he had finished eating, between cases for the first day in nearly a month and trying to let the doctor sleep. He had been growing more worried every day he found Watson gone before dawn and out until well after dark, even knowing the reason. He saw the occasional waves of grief, the days that Watson was quieter than usual, the days he looked away whenever something reminded him of Mary. He knew the doctor was working as a way to combat the too-recent grief. Holmes’ return had lifted much of the weight off his friend, but it couldn’t lift it all.

Work was the best antidote for sorrow, he knew, but Watson had been pushing on overwork. It was about time he let himself catch up on the rest he so needed.

An idea struck him, and he picked up his violin. They were both fond of Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words, and the music always helped prevent nightmares. The longer Watson went without a nightmare, the more rested he would be when the next patient knocked on their door.

* * *

He woke up shivering and reached around for another blanket. The fire must have gone out, he decided, but he was too tired to stir it back to life. He rolled over, pulling the extra blanket he kept at the foot of his bed up to his chin. The extra layer helped, and he felt the heat against his skin, burrowed as he was beneath so many blankets, but still he shivered.

Why was he so cold? He wrapped himself tighter, only for the warmth to suddenly catch up with him. He was roasting, now, and he threw the blankets back, desperately trying to cool off. His room was still dark. It must be the middle of the night, though he thought he heard Holmes’ violin from below him.

He brushed it off, grabbing again for the blankets as he let out too much heat.

Warmth surrounded him, and he sank into a light doze, unable to get a better sleep with the room’s wildly fluctuating temperature. Hot under the blankets, shivering when he kicked them away, he wondered at his inability to get comfortable. An uncomfortably high temperature was a problem he associated more to high summer, not a frostbitten winter.

Strange, but there was little enough he could do about it. He positioned two of his blankets on him, maneuvered the others to easily throw on and off as needed, and went back to sleep, hoping he had enough hours remaining in the night to get a meaningful rest.


	2. Chapter 2

He lost interest in the violin after a couple of hours. The closer midmorning neared, the higher the chance of Watson waking up on his own, anyway, and he turned his attention to the cold case Lestrade had dropped by the day before. A young mother and her two children had disappeared a few years previously, and no one had heard from them since. The trail had long ago gone cold, and Lestrade had brought it by more as something for Holmes to do than out of any real hope of him solving it. He buried himself in the details, learning about their normal routines, who they had known, with whom they had spent time, and started putting together a picture of who they had been and why.

A large search had been raised, and the thick file held several weeks’ worth of detailed information. The latter half of the morning passed quickly, focused as he was on the details as he compared the thick file with newspapers and his commonplace books. Luncheon loomed before Holmes glanced up from his research.

He was still alone in the sitting room, and he frowned.

Where was Watson? He never slept this late, no matter how tired he was.

Holmes put aside the cold case and hurried up the stairs. Had the doctor left while he had been studying the case? He thought he would have heard Watson come down the stairs, especially as his friend never avoided the loose board in his bedroom, nor the squeaky fourth stair, but there was a chance he had been too engrossed in his research to notice. It certainly would not be the first time.

“Watson?”

He pushed open the bedroom door, which creaked faintly in complaint. The room was dark, and a glance revealed that the curtains had been drawn tightly over the windows.

Leaving the door open to allow light from the landing, he stepped further inside, straining to scan the room in the faint light.

“Watson?”

His eyes adjusted after a long moment, and he faintly made out a lump of covers on the bed. Watson had drawn up both his spare blankets, but as Holmes looked on, he pushed three off and rolled onto his back.

“Alright, Watson?” He hated to wake his friend if he was simply tired, but Watson never slept this late.

There was no answer, and he made his way over to the bed.

“Watson?”

Still no answer. Holmes was about to reach out a hand when Watson moved again, unconsciously pulling up the blankets he had just cast aside and curling himself tightly into a ball.

Holmes frowned, his worry growing. He put a gentle hand on the blankets covering Watson’s shoulder, intending to wake him. The many blankets had disguised it, but Watson was trembling violently.

“Watson. Watson, wake up.” Watson’s brow furrowed, and Holmes’ insistence grew with his worry. He shook the shoulder he held. “Watson!”

There was no answer except the chattering of Watson’s teeth.

Holmes pulled open the curtains, flooding the room with light. Watson never moved, and now Holmes could see the flush of fever on the doctor’s face. He could feel the heat radiating off Watson’s skin before his fingers even touched the doctor’s forehead.

He hurried down the stairs for Watson’s medical bag, knowing Watson always left it by his desk in the sitting room.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Holmes?”

He glanced over his shoulder to see Mrs. Hudson laying out their luncheon on the table just as she realized he had hurried in to grab Watson’s medical bag. Worry crossed her face, but this was not the first time one of them had fallen sick.

“The doctor?” He nodded, and she quickly cleared the tray onto the table. “Do you need anything besides cloths and water?” she asked as she hurried for the door.

“Some tea, when you can, and send a runner to Doctor Jackson. His new practice is the closest. One of the Irregulars should be nearby.” He knew enough about medicine to feel confident about helping Watson, but Watson had taught him that it was always a good idea to have a second opinion when dealing with an unknown cause, and without a decided preference—Watson usually refused to be seen by anyone at all, and Holmes himself hated all doctors but Watson—the younger Doctor Jackson would arrive the quickest.

Finally finding the bag on the wrong side of Watson’s desk, he grabbed it and made for the stairs. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he called over his shoulder, unsure and uncaring if she even heard it. The bag had been out of its normal spot. Watson had been sick since he had gotten home the night before, at least, and Holmes hadn’t noticed. How many other things had he missed in the chaos of the previous few days?


	3. Chapter 3

The blazing heat of summer pulsed around him. He had to be in the desert. Only the desert could be this hot in the dead of night. He opened his eyes.

He was in India, traveling through the desert in strange jerking movements. He was riding something, though he lay nearly flat, and the thing moved with a heavy vibration. It was strange, and he didn’t understand it. The desert was India; he recognized the sand, and the blazing sun—Afghanistan had more trees, less sand—but he didn’t remember a method of traveling that vibrated this way.

It was strange, but he was tired, and he let his eyes close. He would figure it out later.

When he woke, it was snowing. London was caught in yet another blizzard, and he and Holmes had been caught out in it. He was freezing, violent tremors shaking his entire body, but he had to keep moving. There was shelter ahead. Holmes said it would only be another few minutes, so he trudged on, pushing his way through the building drifts until they came to a small doorway in a run-down building. Holmes unlocked the door, leading the way into one of his bolt holes.

They had canned food, some blankets, and a small heater, and they settled in to wait out the storm. Finding a comfortable enough spot against an internal wall, they shared the blankets, putting one below them and the rest above. The floor was hard, but it was warmer than outside. Comforting warmth surrounded him, and he fell asleep.

A voice roused him, but he ignored it. He was tired. He wanted to sleep.

He woke enough to realize he was hot, however, so he pushed away a blanket, hoping to cool off enough he could go back to sleep. He was tired, and everything ached. Had he been running, again? He couldn’t remember, but running after some criminal could explain why everything hurt. He kept still, hoping he could sleep through the worst of his aches. That could work, right? Or would he just be stiff in the morning?

He brushed it off. He would deal with that in the morning. Sleep, now.

He heard the voice again, but it sounded distant. Why was someone yelling down on the street? And how was he able to hear them? He hoped Holmes hadn’t left his window open again.

It was much too cold to leave the windows open. He pulled his blankets up, desperately trying to conserve warmth with the wildly fluctuating temperatures. London was having such a strange winter.

Pressure landed on his shoulder, jolting him out of a light doze. Had he doubled up one of his blankets? No matter. Maybe it would keep him warm the next time the temperature plummeted.

The voice was back again, closer this time. “Watson, wake up.”

Was someone in his room? Who would be in his room? Well, Holmes had many times, rousting him for various cases, but he didn’t recognize this voice.

“Watson!”

The room kept getting colder, and he wondered if the storm outside was getting worse. His teeth were chattering, now, giving his shivering a percussion accompaniment.

He could have laughed at the image: a shivering string accompanied by chattering teeth. What a strange concert that would make.

Light shone in his face, and he found himself on stage, a huge audience spread before him.

He tucked the viola under his chin and started to play. His brother loved this song, and he could see him sitting in the back with their parents.

The notes filled the room, seeming to vibrate in the air all the way to the back, and he smiled at the sound. There were few things he liked better than music. His smile grew when another sound joined him, and he looked over to see his father playing the cello.

Surprise shot through him even as his grin nearly split his face. He hadn’t known his father could play!

The tune changed from a duet to a duel, the melody jumping between octaves as they passed it between cello and viola, and the audience got into the fun, clapping along with the beat.

He didn’t want it to end, so he started looping the chorus on itself again and again until they were both playing in ever more complicated spirals. The audience was loving it, but his attention was riveted on his father. He wanted to remember this, always. How had he gone so many years without knowing his father could play, and so well?

The song ended, and his father refused an encore, bowing and exiting the stage. He watched, waiting for him to retake his seat, but his father kept walking. His brother and mother stood to join him, and, with one final glance back, all three walked out the back of the hall, his father leading and his brother bringing up the rear.

Loss punched him in the gut. His viola dropped from a suddenly weak shoulder, and he knew what he would see when he looked over.

An ugly mass of scar tissue looked back at him, and his shoulder refused to support his precious instrument. The audience disappeared one by one. The show was over, and he was alone.

He hurried away.

He found a park outside. It was warm, and families hurried here and there. With nowhere to go, he sat and watched them. Alone, his music denied him, what else had he to do?

Wait. What was that noise?

He heard the melody from their duel again, only this time played on a higher octave. He searched the park, looking for the source of that wonderful music. Following the sound, he saw his friend walking towards him, carrying his Stradivarius. He stood up, hurrying away from that lonely bench. Holmes was turning away, waving at him to hurry up. There was something sticky on the ground, and it pulled at him, trying to keep him seated, but he ignored it. He had to catch up. He called something about Holmes needing to wait a moment, and Holmes finally did, turning and displaying impatience to cover his excitement. They walked together, ambling through the park on one of their many excursions.

“Watson!”

He leaned back on the settee, watching Holmes gently rosin his bow before taking the violin from its case.

The song choice varied, jumping between genres and leaving some songs unfinished, but he didn’t care. The loss of his own music faded whenever Holmes played.

He never minded, even when Holmes used it to think, rather than to enjoy, as he was doing now. He cringed when Holmes played two notes that were better left far apart, but never complained. He learned more of Holmes’ moods through the improvised playing than he ever could any other way. The violin said what his friend never would or could.

The sour note modified more into a melancholic note, and he looked up to see Holmes staring into space but looking in the general direction of the waterfall that hung above the fireplace.

A spray of water hit him in the face, and he walked faster, knowing he was close. He could hear the falls roaring around the corner. He _had_ to get there in time.

He came around the rocks, looking frantically for his friend.

“Holmes!”

He searched the narrow path. Had he beaten Moriarty back? If only he hadn’t fallen for that note!

He heard nothing over the roaring of the falls, and he called again, “Holmes!”

The water cascaded in front of him, and his world fell apart around him. Two sets of footprints followed the path to its end, but neither returned.

He found a note under Holmes’ cigarette case, and the loss punched him in the gut.

The officials following him finally caught up, but they only came to the same conclusion he already knew: Holmes was gone. They gave condolences no deeper than the path was wide and turned back toward town.

He was alone again, and the thought overwhelmed him, sending him to his knees.

He screamed his pain to the falls. Better to let it out than let it burn inside him again. The water sprayed him, drenching him from head to toe and disguising his tears.

His pain poured out like the water cascading before him. He wanted to follow it down, down to the bottom. Would the pain go away if he followed it? Why not follow the falls to the bottom? He was falling, anyway. He was alone again. Everyone he loved left.

But he couldn’t do that. Someone behind him was calling, begging him to come back. He didn’t recognize the voice, but whoever it was sounded near to panicking. They wanted him to come back, to not follow the falls, no matter how much he wanted to.

Unable to go, he was stuck here, alone, screaming his pain, his loss out to the falls that echoed back a deafening roar. The spray of the falls was cool on his face, providing a counterpoint to his hot tears.

His cries slowly stopped as numbness replaced the loss, and he remained on his knees for a while, just listening to the falls roaring at him, talking to him. Someone seemed to be talking from the midst of the cascade, but he could no longer understand the words, no matter how hard he listened. He eventually gave up, and, completely spent, he put the note in the case and the case in his pocket, took Holmes’ walking stick in hand, and slowly made his way back down, not noticing or caring how soaking wet he was. The cold water on his skin seemed an ample reflection of the chill of loss that followed him, that was the only thing he had left.

He was alone.


	4. Chapter 4

He pulled the thermometer back from Watson’s mouth and breathed a sigh of relief. His fever was dropping. Finally.

Watson turned restlessly on the bed, the tears of his nightmare mixing with the water Holmes had been using to cool his fever. He could still hear Watson’s cries, this night echoing the cries from so many years before, and Holmes found himself talking again. He could never be sure if Watson could even hear him, but the sound of his voice had seemed to ease his friend out of that horrible nightmare.

“I am here, Watson. You are not alone.” He changed out the warm cloth on Watson’s forehead for a cooler one as the doctor muttered something about coming back. Or was it not coming back?

“Yes, Watson. Come back. You are needed here, you know.”

“Alone…no’ ‘gain.” Watson was getting more restless, weakly tossing and fighting the covers as he worked himself into another fever dream.

“You are not alone, Watson,” Holmes repeated, laying his hand over Watson’s limp one in the hopes the contact would register even if his voice did not. “You will not be alone. I am here.”

Watson calmed slowly at the touch and lay quietly for a few moments before he started muttering again. Most of it was unintelligible, but it ended with something to the effect of giving him back his instrument, and the corner of Holmes’ mouth twitched in a smile.

“You know, I do wonder how you hid that from me all these years. Why didn’t you tell me you could play the viola so well?”

He could almost hear Watson’s pawky remark telling him to deduce that answer for himself, and another smile twitched his face.

“Just because your wounded shoulder cannot hold the instrument does not mean it cannot hold a bow in that hand, my dear fellow.”

Watson twitched, turning his head away.

“I know. It will be hard, and you would have to reconfigure the internal pieces, but I do not see that stopping you. I am more curious as to why you have not tried it already. Surely, it would only take some practice to bow with your off hand?”

Watson stilled, sinking into a deeper sleep, and Holmes stood, building the fire back up and pouring himself a cup of tea before sinking back into his chair.

“Why have you worked yourself so hard these past couple of weeks, Watson?” He stared, hoping for some kind of reaction. Getting nothing, he continued, if only to keep the doctor from slipping back into another nightmare. “I was nearly ready to fabricate a case on the continent just to get you out of the city, you know. You need to rest occasionally. You cannot help everyone in London.”

_But I can help one more_. Holmes did not have to hear Watson speak to know what he would say.

“Not if you do not rest, yourself. This is the longest I have ever seen you so ill, Watson, at least not due to a case. You are starting to worry me.”

Holmes watched Watson’s face for any indication the doctor was awake, but the doctor remained still. The only movement he had made in days had been the thrashing and sleepwalking in the throes of his fever dreams. Holmes had barely left the room to get some fresh water when Watson had pulled himself out of bed and walked toward the window, murmuring something about how of course he was coming, Holmes, couldn’t he hold on for half a moment to let him catch up? It had nearly taken force to get Watson to lay back down, and that after Mrs. Hudson had convinced Holmes to play along with whatever dream the doctor seemed to be having. He had not stepped away from the bed a second time.

Changing out the cloth again, he said quietly, “I grow weary of these bedside vigils, old friend. I do wish you would take better care of yourself. You would not have caught such a bad fever if you had slept more than ten hours in the last fortnight.”

Watson’s brow furrowed beneath the dripping cloth, and Holmes sighed.

“Wake up, Watson. Please, wake up.”


	5. Chapter 5

The words swirled through his mind. _Wake up. Please, wake up._

Wasn’t he already awake?

He thought about this from his place on the settee as he watched Holmes in his armchair. Holmes had turned around to look at him as he said those words as seriously as he might ask Watson to run an errand for him. Then, he had turned back to the fireplace, leaving Watson utterly confused.

How could he wake up if he was not asleep?

Something drew his attention to the fire, and he looked into the crackling flames. They pulled at his attention, banishing the question from his mind as he watched their flickering dance. The mild warmth felt wonderful against his face, not too hot, but pleasantly warm, and he leaned back into the cushions, basking in the warmth of the fireplace as he let his eyes drift closed.

He was more aware with his eyes closed. He could feel the bed beneath him. Several blankets piled atop him, weighing him down with a pleasant warmth. A cool pillow cushioned his head, strangely fresh, as if it had just been swapped with a warm one.

He could hear something, too, but it took him a long moment to identify it: breathing. _Holmes’_ breathing, slow but light. He was sleeping in the light doze he slipped into when he had to be awake at a moment’s notice.

He pondered that. He was relatively certain he was in his own bed, so why was Holmes sleeping next to his bed?

His shoulder twitched, and he adjusted to pull his weight off it. The effort took more out of him than it should have, and, belatedly, he registered how tired he felt, how weak.

He had been ill.

He thought back, trying to remember. He last recalled dragging himself home from treating another spill on the ice just in time for dinner. Exhausted, he had eaten and gone straight to bed, hoping there would be no emergency patients in the night. He wanted to sleep the night through for the first time in he had no idea how long. He was too tired to even worry about nightmares.

He had more vague memories of alternately freezing and sweating, of the room’s temperature fluctuating wildly, of a frantic voice demanding he answer, of cool cloths and that same voice, talking about everything from a recent case to pleas to come back.

_Stay with me. Don’t you dare give up. Stay with me._

The memory floated up out of the haze, and he recognized Holmes’ voice in a way he hadn’t at the time. The same emotion Holmes usually concealed filled the words, pushing them into the air with all the force of a locomotive.

How long had Holmes been sitting by his bed, begging him to come back?

His eyes finally obeyed his command to open, and he looked around the room. Holmes had carried a chair up from the sitting room and placed it as close to the bed as possible. A bowl of water and several drying cloths sat on a nearby table, and he saw his medical bag on the floor nearby, the thermometer and a packet of fever-reducer on top.

Holmes himself was slouched in the chair, twitching in his light doze. He looked exhausted. However long he had been sick, Holmes hadn’t slept, as evidenced by the circles under his eyes.

He readjusted on the bed, intending to let Holmes sleep—they could talk later—but even that slight movement jolted Holmes out of his doze.

Holmes’ gaze immediately focused on Watson, though he seemed surprised to see Watson looking back at him.

Pleasure lit Holmes’ eyes, but his voice was steady. “Do you know where you are?”

Watson nodded, not trusting his voice with how dry his throat was. He cut his eyes to the glass of water on the table nearest the bed. Thankfully, Holmes caught the movement and helped him sit up enough to drink.

“Thank you,” he said as Holmes set the glass back on the table. His voice was as weak as the rest of him, but that and the hunger twisting his stomach seemed to be his only problems. “What happened?”

“I came to check on you when you never showed up for luncheon.” Holmes’ voice was cool as always, but his keen gaze swept over Watson’s face, looking for signs of illness. “Why didn’t you tell me you were ill?”

He fought to sit up fully, and Holmes placed a pillow where he could lean against it. The change in position made him cough, but he managed to answer after a moment.

“I thought I was just tired.”

Holmes turned towards the fireplace, turning back with a bowl that Watson hadn’t been able to see. “The broth has cooled, some, but it should still be good.”

He tried to take the bowl, but his hands shook from the weight, and Holmes took it back, carefully offering him one spoonful at a time.

“How long?” he asked after a few spoonsful.

“You have been delirious with fever off and on for three days,” was the reply. “Mrs. Hudson was worried.”

Mrs. Hudson wasn’t the only one worried, if Holmes’ patience at helping him eat the broth was anything to go by.

“Sorry.”

Holmes’ hand tightened around the spoon, but his voice remained steady. “I called in Jackson when I couldn’t wake you. When he checked on you last, after your fever broke, he made me promise to pass on a reprimand for working down near the East End after what happened last time, and something about owing him a drink.”

Watson inhaled at the wrong moment, and Holmes quickly moved the still half-full bowl of broth before it could spill.

“He would,” Watson finally got out when the coughing subsided, hoping Holmes couldn’t tell whether the catch in his words was due to the broth going down the wrong pipe or the message Watson’s colleague had insisted he relay as soon as Watson was conscious.

“Would the incident at the East End have anything to do with the time you caught pneumonia?”

Watson stared at him. “How the blazes do you know about that? You were dead at the time!”

Holmes’ mouth twitched. “Jackson mentioned that, too.”

Watson huffed in weak irritation, but a shadow of grief at the memory quickly chased the irritation away, and he focused his attention of the last spoonful of broth.

“Watson?”

With the bowl gone, he kept his eyes on the blanket. Holmes’ question was evident enough in his voice, but he ignored it.

“Three days, you said? So it’s…” He trailed off as he figured out the date, and he sighed. He had missed it.

“It is the afternoon of the twelfth,” Holmes confirmed, looking carefully at Watson. “What was so important about yesterday’s date?”

He started minutely, surprised for a moment at the deduction, but his fatigue combined with the grief sweeping over him pushed everything else aside. It had been a year, already, and he hadn’t even made it to the grave on the anniversary.

“Watson?” Holmes was beginning to wonder if Watson was still ill. He could see it in that grey gaze. He had to answer, no matter how little he wanted to, if only to ease that worry.

“Would you hand me that?” he asked, pointing at a photo album sitting in a shadowy corner of his bookshelf.

Holmes easily reached it from his chair, and Watson opened the book on the bedcovers with Holmes looking on curiously. The few photographs were interspersed with news articles, and it was evident that the album had become a picture journal of sorts. Watson moved quickly over headlines of various cases he had published in the three years after Switzerland, slowing as he came to a series of photographs taken by a professional photographer on their trip to the sea. On the last page, a large picture of Mary alone shared the space with an obituary, and Watson lightly traced the photograph. He handed the album to Holmes without looking at the newspaper clipping. There was no need; he had memorized it long before.

A quick glance was all it took for Holmes to realize what Watson was telling him, and his gaze shot up. Watson was tracing a pattern on the blanket again.

“Watson?”

“There was a long stretch of cold weather this time last year, too.” Watson kept his voice carefully blank and his gaze on the pattern he was tracing in the blanket. “One of the old Irregulars found a family down there, all with various stages of pneumonia. I doubt Jackson knows that Mary had her first episode when I was sick, and she didn’t tell me after I recovered. The second one took them.”

Silence reigned for a long moment, and Watson kept his gaze on the blanket.

“Them?” Holmes’ voice was barely audible. Watson looked up to see Holmes staring, stunned.

“I thought you knew.”

Holmes shook his head. “Mycroft sent me a news clipping about Mary, but it was months late and had been damaged in transit. The date was unreadable, and it said nothing about a child.”

“’Months late?’” he repeated. Holmes had arrived in London only a few months after Mary’s funeral. “But then—”

Holmes nodded. “I came back as soon as I knew. Fortunately, Moran had already made his move.”

Watson was quiet for a moment, digesting that. “The baby’s middle name was going to be Holmes if a girl,” he finally said. “Sherlock if a boy.”

It was Holmes’ turn to be surprised, and his ears flushed pink. He searched for something to say, coming up empty, and silence filled the room. Watson stared through the opposite wall, memories and possibilities filling his mind.

“Why did you go back to the East End?” Holmes said after a long moment.

“It wasn’t the East End, not properly.” Watson resumed tracing a pattern on the blanket. It gave him a reason to not look at Holmes as he spoke. “One of the Irregulars lives a few streets over, and I was coming home from seeing to his sister. There was a young mother sitting on the corner, begging for money or reputable work while she held her child. She—” he cut off, swallowing before continuing, “The child was ill, burning with fever. She saw my bag and begged me to help, but the boy was too far gone.”

His face twisted in the remembered grief, and he fell silent, but he knew he didn’t have to speak for Holmes to know the rest, for Holmes to realize that the boy had been a young toddler and the mother had blonde hair and blue eyes. Hurting at the looming anniversary, Watson had fled the grief of losing yet another patient, and one so visually similar to the one in his memories, by throwing himself into his work.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Holmes’ voice was steady as always, but Watson could detect traces of…something under the words. He was unable to name it, however, without looking up from the pattern he was tracing on the blanket. “I asked you the other day why you were pushing yourself so hard,” Holmes continued, “and you responded with something about the storm causing injuries.”

Watson shook his head without looking up. “I wouldn’t do that to you, Holmes. I know how much you hate conversations like that. I have dealt with it alone this long. I didn’t need to burden you with it, too.”

“Proximal relevance.”

The response was immediate, but the seeming non sequitur confused Watson, and he finally looked up, his confused gaze meeting Holmes’. “Pardon?”

“Proximal relevance,” Holmes repeated. “It matters to me because it matters to you.” Watson just stared at him, and Holmes started to fidget in discomfort before he visibly forced himself to still. “You never speak of her—them. I thought the silence was from not wanting to revisit the loss from which you were beginning to move on, so I didn’t push you. I never realized…That is, I do not expect you to hide something so important to you.”

Silence reigned for a long moment as Watson considered the offer. Knowing Holmes’ aversion to anything related to emotions, though, Watson finally shook his head again. “It’s alright, Holmes.” He tried to stop there, but continued at Holmes’ confused look. “I appreciate your words, but really, it’s alright. I can handle it. I wouldn’t want to be a burden—”

“Watson.” Holmes cut him off right there. “You loved her. Probably still do. I get that. Just because I do not understand the grief of loss does not mean you have to stifle it in my presence. How many of my own Black Moods have you weathered trying to help?”

“But—”

“It is no different,” Holmes insisted before Watson could fully form the dispute, the insistence that Holmes need not pretend to care about something that made him so uncomfortable. “Why are you so anxious to help me if you will not let me do the same for you?” Holmes asked. “You cannot think I would mock you for it?”

“No, of course not,” was Watson’s quick answer. “It’s just…” he trailed off, unsure how to phrase it, but his meaning was clear enough.

“You are not alone, Watson. Not anymore.”


	6. Chapter 6

It was two days before Watson left his bed, and another four before he could go further than the sitting room. Holmes could see how the inactivity chafed at him, but the lingering fatigue and general achiness was stronger than Watson’s hatred of convalescence. Wary of a relapse, Holmes did his best to keep Watson resting. The resulting argument when Holmes tried to keep Watson in bed the third day at least had the benefit of proving he was feeling better, even if he did fall asleep on the settee less than an hour later. Holmes considerately did not point that out, though he knew his desire was clear enough.

Jackson stopped by once more, a few hours after Watson woke, and pronounced him on the mend despite Holmes’ worry about how tired he was. It had taken three tries to rouse him when Jackson walked in, and even then, it took Watson a full minute to wake enough to respond. Once awake, however, Watson was well able to face off against Jackson, insisting he was fine and, when Jackson brought it up, denying going to the East End and therefore owing Jackson a drink, which somewhat eased Holmes’ worries. Holmes had stepped out while Jackson evaluated Watson, but several walls mattered little when Watson got that irritated. Holmes had learned the hard way that Watson’s bull pup was much easier to rouse soon after he had been sick. Jackson apparently hadn’t known that, and what the other doctor had likely intended as a mild remonstration nearly turned into a full-blown argument. Holmes could hear Watson’s responses clearly from his chair in the sitting room. Watson’s replies got quieter after a minute or so, however, and Jackson came downstairs looking half-chagrined, half-pleased. Watson’s show of spirit was as clear an indicator as any that he was feeling much better, but the argument had taken a lot out of him.

After sleeping off his irritation with ‘young upstarts,’ as he had taken to calling Jackson, he spent the time reading, which was enjoyable for a few days, but he eventually ran out of material. Holmes knew Watson was bored when he came back from a quick errand to find Watson scanning his shelf of research material and commonplace books. Holmes’ comment asking if Watson had ‘run out of drivel’ resulted in an equally pawky ‘no, just looking through the ones on the other side of the room’ and a bantering conversation that did nothing for Watson’s attempts to find reading material.

The time passed slowly for both of them. Without the stamina to write or do much of anything else, there was still only so much time Watson could spend asleep, and a lack of books made the hours drag. As for Holmes, he had no case and dared not take one, knowing Watson would follow no matter how tired he still was. Slowly, however, Watson spent more and more time awake, and the days progressed back to something closer to normal, with Watson writing in his journals and Holmes beginning to look for a new case.

Two weeks later saw them standing at the edge of a cemetery.

“Are you sure you’re willing to come?” Watson kept his gaze straight ahead, apparently directing his question to the cemetery in front of them.

Holmes read more into the words than perhaps Watson had intended. “How many times have you been here in the last few months?”

Watson sighed, his gaze still on the cemetery gate growing ever closer. “Six.”

Six. He was slipping. How could he have missed something so important?

Watson caught the look on his face. “I didn’t hide them from you, Holmes. You were out of town for one or two, and another two at least were on the way back from rounds.”

Holmes muttered something about the Irregulars needing training, and Watson halted, staring up at him with surprise in his gaze as he leaned on the stick the cold necessitated. “ _You_ told them to follow me?!”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “You avoided them on purpose?” he asked in response.

“Of course, I did! They refused to tell me why they were following me. I figured it was a game for the younger ones and took to losing them in a crowd.” Watson smirked, “the way _you_ taught me.”

Holmes looked away to hide the smile trying to escape, but made no reply. The Irregulars hadn’t admitted that Watson had been losing them. It had probably stung their pride.

“Why did you have them follow me?”

All amusement had fled Watson’s voice, and Holmes turned back around to see Watson staring up at him with something akin to wariness…or hurt. Holmes had opened his mouth to make something up, but closed it again with a sigh. “You were rarely home, and you looked more unhappy every day. I asked them to see if you were looking for lodgings.”

They resumed walking as Watson thought about that, probably remembering what he had been doing the times he had caught the Irregulars following him, based on his words a moment later. “I first saw them three days after I treated Charlie’s sister,” he finally said quietly, and in that simple sentence, Holmes heard the denial of a plan to move.

He nodded, but Watson led the way to a headstone before he could reply.

A light covering of snow left over from the night before covered the stone, and Watson got down on one knee to wipe it away with his glove.

“Hello, my dears,” he murmured, placing at the base of the stone the bundle of greenery they had gotten on the way from Baker Street. He stayed on one knee, head down, tracing his fingers over the name carved into the stone, but Holmes noticed the tension in Watson’s shoulders as he murmured something mostly inaudible, though the words “Mary” and “little one” carried occasionally to Holmes’ ears.

His hand came to rest on Watson’s shoulder almost without him realizing it, but he struggled for words. He had never been good at this.

Watson fell silent. Holmes could feel the tension building that Watson refused to release, and he gently squeezed the shoulder he held.

The tension fled with a sigh, and a single drop landed on the headstone next to the flowers before Watson ducked his head. Any others disappeared into the handkerchief Watson produced from a pocket, though he kept his face out of sight. After tucking the handkerchief away, he remained kneeling for a moment longer before using his stick to regain his feet, sharply turning away from the grave.

They left the cemetery without a word, Holmes still trying and failing to find something to say.

“For what it is worth,” he finally said, “I am sure you would have made an amazing father.”

It took Watson a moment to respond. He cleared his throat. “Thank you.” He paused for a long moment, but continued before Holmes could decide on something else to say. “You would have been an exceptional godfather.”

It was Holmes’ turn to halt and stare, and a small smile appeared on Watson’s face. “If you had been…available,” he answered the unspoken question, “we would have asked you to be godfather.”

Stunned, Holmes fought for something to reply. They would have made him godfather? That was…

He swallowed and finally found his words. “I would have been honored.”

He turned, taking Watson’s arm in his own and leading them out of the cemetery. There was only so long he could stay in a conversation such as this, at least when it wasn’t absolutely necessary.

“What do you say to dinner at Simpson’s?”

Watson smirked. “Can we stop at that new bookstore on the way? Your books are terribly boring, you know.”

Holmes let out a bark of laughter. “Are you referring to the single-story store, or the one above the pharmacy?”

“The one above the pharmacy, of course. It’s _much_ larger.”

Holmes groaned but turned their steps in that direction.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is greatly appreciated on all my stories! :)


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